


A Study in Indigo

by wheel_pen



Series: Indigo [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 12:57:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4480007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John is a slave named Indigo, and his new master doesn’t seem to know the first thing about owning slaves, though he does seem rather good at solving crimes.</p>
<p>This story is unfinished; it starts with Indigo leaving the crime scene and follows the rest of “A Study in Pink” from there. I’d like to write the beginning of it sometime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study in Indigo

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.
> 
> Inherent in slavery and other forms of subjugation are dubious consent, unhealthy relationships, and violence.
> 
> This story has not been Britpicked. Please let me know if I get anything horribly wrong.
> 
> This story is based on Sherlock, created by Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat, which in turn is based on the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe. The “A Study in Pink” transcript used was by Ariane DeVere aka Callie Sullivan at LiveJournal.

[Sherlock purchases a new slave and names him Indigo, then hurries to a London crime scene at the behest of the police and makes brilliant deductions about the murdered woman, before dashing off in a fit of inspiration. Oh, and since Sherlock can’t be bothered to collar Indigo properly, he makes him pretend to be a free person for the time being. Also, Indigo has a habit of zoning out and ignoring his surroundings, which will become more obvious later.]

Indigo limped down the stairs, every creak of the old wood making him think the next one might come from his own body as his leg finally gave out. A couple of police officers hurried down the stairs past him; one bumped him on accident, throwing him off-balance. Fortunately he was able to catch himself against the banister, avoiding a painful tumble to the bottom. He’d have bruises, though. The man barely noticed him and Indigo said nothing to draw his attention.

At the ground floor he shrugged painfully out of the coveralls and took his jacket back, then walked out to the street, expecting to see his impatient master hopping around, half genius, half ADHD-afflicted rabbit. Possibly rabid as well. There were plenty of police and some press, but not the person Indigo was looking for. A sick feeling began to develop in his stomach.

“He’s gone,” said Sergeant Donovan suddenly. Indigo glanced at her questioningly. “Sherlock Holmes. He just took off. He does that.”

Took off, without his new slave. Who didn’t have a collar, and was pretending _not_ to be a slave.

Some people, he thought, would call that an opportunity.

“Is he coming back?” he inquired of Donovan, trying not to sound too desperate.

“Didn’t look like it,” she shrugged.

“Right.” He could hail a cab, he supposed, and hope his master would pay them when he got—Oh, right, he didn’t know where ‘home’ was. The man had never mentioned the address. And he was loathe to ask Donovan if _she_ knew; there seemed to be a lot of bad blood there. Maybe Lestrade…?

“You’re not his friend,” Donovan said, out of nowhere. Ice clenched in Indigo’s stomach as she walked towards him. “He doesn’t _have_ friends. So who _are_ you?”

“I’m—I’m nobody,” he told her, then cursed the suspicious answer. “I just met him.” That at least was completely true.

Donovan didn’t even seem to think it was that weird, Sherlock bringing a near-stranger to a crime scene. “Okay, bit of advice then,” she said seriously. “Stay away from that guy.”

Indigo’s eyebrows rose. “Why?” he asked before he could stop himself. Obviously staying away was impossible—once he found him again, anyway—but it was good to know as much as possible about one’s master. Often his enemies were useful at providing the worst-case scenario (or what they _thought_ was worst-case).

“You know why he’s here?” Donovan began. “He’s not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it.” She said this soberly, without the glee that might signal exaggeration. “The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won’t be enough. One day we’ll be standing round a body and Sherlock Holmes’ll be the one that put it there.”

Indigo had a sudden, chilling vision that it was _his_ body lying there, police photographers flashing away. Only, once they realized he was a slave, the case would go on the back burner.

“Because he’s a psychopath,” Donovan concluded simply. “And psychopaths get bored.”

Indigo took a breath, unsure what to say in response. He had known psychopaths, and Sherlock didn’t strike him as one. Though Donovan had obviously known him for much longer. Then again, they clearly loathed each other, and who went around telling a total stranger their ‘friend’ was a psychopath? Donovan’s words said as much about her as about Sherlock.

“Donovan!” Lestrade called from the building, as Indigo just stood there.

“Coming,” she shouted back, starting to join him. After a moment she turned back to Indigo. “Stay away from Sherlock Holmes,” she warned.

Indigo watched her leave, watched all the police talk amongst themselves. Suddenly he had a powerful desire to be away from them all and he started limping down the road, headed for the sounds of more traffic ahead. On a personal level he had learned to distrust the police; he respected what they did in general but society’s protection and justice did not in practice extend towards slaves. If they realized what he was he’d be in a car on the way downtown right now, even though you’d think finding this serial killer ought to be slightly higher in priority for them.

His master, on the other hand, had been brilliant, insightful, and in a weird sort of way, even respectful of him—his knowledge, his experience. Yes, he was also insensitive, insulting, thoughtless, erratic. Indigo had faced worse than that. And he wasn’t going to go back on the streets, even though he could probably slip away into the night so easily right now. With his injuries—it would be hard, too hard. And the thought of being in the pens again filled him with despair.

Psychopath or not, Sherlock Holmes was apparently the only person crazy enough to buy him. So Indigo decided to go with that for the time being, and hoped that maybe they’d meet up again if he got to the main road, or perhaps he’d get someplace where he could look him up. Surely if his master had run off and left him, he had a plan for retrieving him later. Or so Indigo told himself.

After he’d limped a couple of blocks he began to think that maybe his plan needed a serious revision. He passed a payphone and it rang, startling him, but he ignored it and continued on. Nice to know the payphones still worked—he could call his master collect… if he knew his mobile number. Which he didn’t.

Another payphone rang as he went by, this time outside a fast food place, and Indigo glanced at it with a frown. Bit odd that, especially how it stopped just as an employee reached for it. Indigo had a sudden stab of paranoia.

This was not helped by the black car that was rolling slowly down the same street he was walking, and turned when he turned. Not the police. But that meant it could be something worse. There were all kinds of worse things out on the street, prowling for victims. He’d just seen evidence of that, hadn’t he? Most of the threats he knew about didn’t have such nice cars, though.

He tried to cross the street and the car surged in front of him, cutting him off. He stumbled but didn’t fall, though his leg burned. The back window rolled down and an attractive young woman, well-dressed, looked him over. “Get in,” she told him matter-of-factly.

Indigo glanced around, seeing no obvious witnesses. “No,” he decided, stepping back onto the curb he’d just left. If this was his master’s way of sending a car for him, he needed to teach his agents more people skills.

Then again, his master didn’t have many of those himself.

“Get in,” the woman repeated, not sounding like she cared much one way or the other. She wore a collar, Indigo noticed, a thin metal one that could be taken for a necklace. Even more reason why Indigo should ignore her, if he was supposed to be free. He turned away, starting to limp back the way he’d come. “Four-nine-two-one-nine,” she called after him, and Indigo froze. That was his slave identification number, the one that followed him no matter what name his master chose to bestow on him.

Which meant they knew who he was. And that he should be wearing a collar, and wasn’t.

Slowly he turned back around. “Who are you?” he asked. Surely if his master had sent her, he would have told her his new name.

“Anthea,” she answered, and he rolled his eyes.

“Your master?” he specified.

“Get in,” she said for the third time, then glanced significantly to the side. A patrol car was slowing as it approached them.

Indigo decided to go with the unknown evil. “Right,” he agreed, opening her door. She scooted over so he could sit and the car started to move as soon as he’d shut the door. “Who’s your master?” he asked her again. She glanced up from the Blackberry she was typing away at, smiled at him, and said nothing.

Alright. Probably her master had forbidden her from speaking to him unnecessarily. “Anthea?” he checked, mildly curious.

“Not really,” she claimed, intent on her messaging.

“Right.”

After several minutes of silent driving the car pulled into an almost-empty warehouse and stopped. Anthea (not Anthea?) glanced over at Indigo expectantly. “I should get out?” he guessed. Her look said yes.

The only person, practically the only _thing_ around, was a well-dressed man standing in the middle of the emptiness, leaning casually on an umbrella. Bit affected, Indigo thought. Was it supposed to put him at ease, with his cane? A plain chair stood before him, which he gestured to with the umbrella in a showy way.

“Have a seat,” he invited, smiling pleasantly.

It was the kind of pleasant smile Indigo had learned not to trust. “Who are you?” he asked, limping closer. He ignored the chair. “Not the police,” he judged.

The man became a bit sterner as he looked at him. “The leg must be hurting you,” he predicted. “Sit down. I give you permission.”

“I don’t want to,” Indigo replied evenly, teeth gritting slightly at the man’s patronizing tone.

“Slaves don’t usually get to do what they _want_ ,” the man pointed out lightly.

Obviously he knew who Indigo was. But Indigo knew who _he_ was, too, or rather, his type—wealthy, old money, used to snapping his fingers and being obeyed. The type who thought _everyone_ was his slave, whether they wore a collar or not. Indigo stood his ground.

“You don’t seem very afraid,” the man noted, looking at him with curiosity.

“You don’t seem very frightening.” It was a bold response, but whoever this man was, Indigo didn’t class him among those who automatically inspired fear in him—the police, the violent, the sadistic. Which was not necessarily a compliment.

The man chuckled, though, as if Indigo was oh so wrong. “Ah yes. The bravery of the soldier.” Indigo froze. “Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think?”

“I always thought ‘special’ was a nice euphemism,” Indigo deadpanned, but his throat was dry. How did he know—

The man smirked appreciatively. “I see why Sherlock bought you,” he claimed. “One retains certain battlefield traits, even though the last battle was long ago. What, eight years since you were Captain John Watson?” He dropped the name lightly and Indigo tried to keep his breathing even, though he suspected the man easily saw through his efforts. Hearing the name again was like a punch in the gut—no doubt exactly what was intended. “And a doctor, too. Tell me, what does Sherlock call you now?”

“Indigo.”

“Much less boring,” he commented, with mild approval. “And why has your new master left you wandering the streets without a collar?”

“We were inadvertently separated—“ Indigo began.

The man rolled his eyes. “Nonsense. He refused to collar you, made you lie to the police, then _forgot_ about you to go chasing off on some wild fancy of his own.”

Indigo was not sure if he was just guessing or not. His demeanor said not. And his tone said he hardly expected any better behavior from Sherlock. Which was _two_ people who’d put him down to Indigo, of their own volition. Rather extraordinary. “Who _are_ you?” Indigo repeated, finding the situation suddenly more bizarre than sinister.

“An interested party,” the man replied, smugly coy.

“Interested in Sherlock?” It would be impossible to imagine someone like this interested in _Indigo_. “But not a friend,” he assumed.

“You’ve met him,” the man pointed out. “How many ‘friends’ do you imagine he has? I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes has.”

“And what’s that?” Indigo was forced to ask when the man didn’t continue.

“An enemy.” Indigo’s eyebrows shot up as if to say, _really_? “In _his_ mind, certainly,” the man went on airily. “If you were to ask him, he’d probably say _archenemy_. He does love to be dramatic.”

“Well thank G-d _you’re_ above all that.”

The man frowned at Indigo, as if peeved by his refusal to cower like a good slave. Then he tried another tactic. “Being a slave can be difficult when your master doesn’t take proper care of you,” he noted, with a trace of sympathy. Indigo was unmoved. “I’d be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way. A bank account, with cash on demand.”

“Why?” Indigo asked. Several possibilities occurred to him.

“Because you might not always be a slave,” the man told him, watching Indigo’s reaction keenly.

It was a h—l of a thing to dangle in front of him. But Indigo had heard offers like that before. And look where he was. “In exchange for what?” he clarified.

“Information,” the man shrugged, and Indigo saw his game now. “Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you’d feel… uncomfortable with.” Indigo almost made a quip about revealing Sherlock’s favorite position but restrained himself. “Just tell me what he’s up to.”

“Why?” Indigo asked again, out of sheer curiosity.

“I worry about him,” the man claimed. “Constantly.”

“That’s nice of you.”

He ignored the sarcasm. “But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned,” he went on. “We have what you might call a… difficult relationship.”

This put Indigo in mind of some of the toxic, dysfunctional households he’d been privileged to serve at over the years. Heirs undermining each other before the wealthy benefactor, servants scheming to advance themselves, business partners amassing more and more power. Even the Army hadn’t been immune, though he saw that more clearly looking back than he had at the time.

Indigo was not a plotter. His brain didn’t work that way. He was the halfwit who always thought the kind, honest, hard-working one would win in the end, and life had done its best to beat that naïve notion out of him.

“No,” he said clearly, in response to the man’s offer. Not that he trusted it anyway, not even the dream of it.

“But I haven’t mentioned a figure.”

Indigo was tired of this conversation now, and back to wondering how he was going to find his master again. “Don’t bother.”

The man chuckled again. “You’re very loyal, _very_ quickly.”

“I’m not interested,” Indigo stated, so there could be no mistake.

He pulled a small notebook from his pocket and flipped it open, and Indigo resisted sighing. The man was more persistent than a telemarketer. “You have a difficult history,” he commented, seemingly gazing at some notes. Indigo was not impressed; his history of ownership was a matter of public record. “Trust issues, nightmares, a psychosomatic limp…”

Indigo blinked at him. Those details were _not_ a matter of public record. In fact, he wasn’t sure _where_ the man would have learned them, because they sure as h—l didn’t send slaves to therapists.

“Could it be that you’ve decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?” the man mused, finding this possibility remarkable.

“You act like I have a choice in the matter,” Indigo ground out.

“We always have a choice, Indigo,” the man refuted steadily. “Or perhaps _your_ choice was to run away when your master foolishly turned his back, and I just interrupted you.” He smirked when Indigo raised his chin a notch in defiance of this idea.

“Are we done?” Indigo asked him angrily.

“You tell me.”

Indigo looked at him for a long moment, then turned his back and started to limp away towards the car. Rich people and their stupid games, using human beings like toys to be gifted and fought over. Actually, that was similar to the Army, too.

“I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, if they thought you _did_ have a choice,” he predicted. “But you’re not the type of man to do that, are you, Indigo?”

Something about his phrasing made Indigo stop, tense with fury at this person who knew too much about him, or thought he did. “What?”

“You have a reputation,” the man claimed. “Sherlock never bothers to research these matters, but I do. You’ve fought many battles since you stopped being a soldier. Or perhaps ‘survived’ is the more accurate term.”

Indigo pivoted slowly, not sure he would be able to control himself if the man was smirking. But he wasn’t. Instead he looked very serious.

“To Sherlock Holmes, this city is a battlefield,” he said. “He needs someone who’s not afraid of battle, to look after him.”

Funny, Indigo didn’t think that sounded like something an archenemy would say.

“Welcome to the field, Indigo,” the man concluded. He turned and walked away into the shadows, casually twirling his umbrella as he went.

What. The. H—l. That was all that kept running through Indigo’s mind as he watched the man leave. He had experienced _weird_ before—had he ever—but this was a whole other level.

Behind him the car door opened and he turned to see Anthea beckoning to him. “I’m to take you home,” she announced, eyes still glued to her Blackberry as they got back in the car.

“Right,” he agreed. “Where’s that, again?”

She glanced at him as if laughing a bit at his ignorance. “Two-two-one B Baker Street,” she informed him, as the car rolled back onto the street.

“That’s where Sherlock Holmes lives?” This question did not merit a verbal response; he assumed the answer was yes. The rest of the trip was silent as Indigo replayed the lines and images from the conversation with the mysterious man in his head, trying to guess at their underlying meaning. Plots, he was terrible at. People, he could read. And it was beginning to dawn on him that the man he’d just been talking to was actually extremely dangerous—not in the way that Indigo had the most experience with, someone who could hit or kick you, or order you starved or chained. More like—someone who could discover every little thing that brought you joy, and crush it utterly. He felt slightly sick.

“Your master—“ he began. Anthea looked at him only when he stopped, and he shook his head. If that was _his_ master, he’d never say a word against him, out of fear, or possibly love. A man like that could inspire either.

She gave him a bemused smirk. “Bye,” she hinted, and he realized the car had stopped. There was a sandwich shop in front of them, and beside it a door marked 221B. He climbed out of the car and knocked on the door, hearing Anthea drive away behind him.

The door was answered, after a long moment, by an older woman in a flowered dress. “Mrs. Hudson?” Indigo guessed, preparing to explain himself.

“Oh, you must be Indigo, dear,” she said unexpectedly, eyes lingering a touch longer on his cane. Her smile was friendly as she ushered him in. “Sherlock’s just upstairs, he usually leaves the door open.”

“Upstairs, right, thank you,” Indigo replied, eyeing the steep, narrow flight. There was no help for it; he gritted his teeth and climbed up them. At the top was an open hallway and at the end of it a door, which as predicted was unlocked, and led to an extremely cluttered living room strewn with books, newspapers, clothes, and assorted boxes. Indigo didn’t even see Sherlock for a moment; he was lying on the sofa, pressing one hand to his arm as he clenched and unclenched his fist, and he sighed noisily.

Indigo’s eyebrow went up, wondering if he had a drug addict to deal with. “What are you doing?” he asked, tone carefully neutral.

Bright blue eyes darted to him. “Nicotine patch,” Sherlock answered shortly. “Helps me think.” Actually he had _three_ of the patches stuck to his arm, Indigo saw as he limped closer, and was pressing them to release the chemicals more quickly. “Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work.”

Good news for _his_ breathing, though, Indigo thought to himself. He waited a moment longer, to see if Sherlock had anything else to say to him, but he merely closed his eyes again and steepled his fingers under his chin. Indigo limped toward a chair, hesitated, then sat down in it without asking for permission. His glance at Sherlock still showed no response, and he dared to start relaxing.

“Hand me that phone,” Sherlock suddenly said, pointing vaguely towards the desk. Indigo pushed himself out of the chair, retrieved the mobile, and placed it in Sherlock’s upturned palm. When the other man only silently pressed the phone between his hands, Indigo went back to the chair. Sherlock still seemed preoccupied, so Indigo closed his eyes and tipped his head back. He could use a rest himself.

“It’s no use,” he heard Sherlock murmuring, and Indigo forced his eyes back open. “There’s no other way. We’ll have to risk it.” He raised his voice a little and held the phone out towards Indigo, without looking at him. “On my desk there’s a number. I want you to send a text.”

Sherlock already had the phone in his possession, and Indigo had just _been_ to the desk. But he was used to this sort of mercurial behavior from masters and didn’t sigh as he stood once more, took the phone, and went to the desk to collect the phone number. It was written on a card just the right size for a luggage label, and also contained the name Jennifer Wilson.

“Was this the dead woman?” Indigo asked curiously, punching the number into the phone.

“Yes. That’s not important,” Sherlock insisted, and Indigo shrugged. Not his business, really. “Have you done it?”

“Yes.”

“These words exactly,” Sherlock instructed. “What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out.” Indigo dutifully began typing. “Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come.”

“Is that what happened?” Indigo asked him, typing. “You blacked out at Lauriston Gardens?” That might actually explain his disappearance rather well.

“What?” snapped Sherlock, negating that idea. “No. No!” He sat up quickly from the couch, stood, and stepped on top of the coffee table and down to the floor, as if going around the piece of furniture was simply pointless. “Type and send it. Quickly,” he pushed, heading for the kitchen.

Indigo sent it. “Done.”

Sherlock reappeared dragging a small pink suitcase, which he placed on one of the dining chairs pulled from the table to the living room. Then he paused in whatever he was doing and turned to Indigo, really seeming to notice him for the first time. “How did you get home?” he asked with a frown.

“You left me at Lauriston Gardens—“

“I know where I left you,” Sherlock interrupted impatiently.

“—without a collar—“

The other man rolled his eyes. “Of course! You’re pretending to not be a slave!” he reminded Indigo. “A collar would’ve been a _bit_ of a giveaway.”

He sat down in one of the armchairs facing the pink suitcase, his back to Indigo, and the slave limped around to see him. Sherlock was still looking at him expectantly.

“Your archenemy gave me a lift,” Indigo replied flatly, curious what his reaction would be. “Jolly decent of him.”

“I’m sure,” Sherlock said suspiciously, eyes narrowing at Indigo. Apparently he knew exactly who this referred to—Indigo wasn’t sure if that was good or not. “Did he offer you money to spy on me? Possibly your freedom, too,” he predicted.

“Yes.”

“Did you take it?”

“No.”

“Pity,” Sherlock responded, and he seemed to believe Indigo’s answer without reserve. This was oddly comforting to Indigo. “We could have split the fee. Think it through next time.” He seemed to indicate that Indigo should take the other armchair, on the other side of the pink suitcase, so he did. “If you were useful to him, he wouldn’t have freed you,” Sherlock warned, in a more sober tone.

“I figured,” Indigo agreed. “Is that Jennifer Wilson’s case?” he asked, changing the subject. Sherlock opened it and began pawing through the mostly-pink contents. “The one you said the murderer would have?”

He asked this in a conversational tone, but Sherlock looked up sharply, as if suddenly realizing how bad this must look. “Perhaps I should mention, _I_ didn’t kill her,” he said, a mix of sarcastic and defensive. Indigo didn’t really think he did, but Sherlock seemed unnerved by his lack of response. “It’s a logical assumption,” he added, “given the text I just had you send, and the fact that I have her case.”

“Do people usually assume you’re the murderer?” Indigo wanted to know.

Sherlock smirked finally, realizing he wasn’t going to freak out. “Now and then, yes.” He popped up so he was crouching on the seat of the chair, fairly bouncing with energy, excited in a surprisingly childlike way, and Indigo couldn’t help a small smile twisting his lips. Clearly the man was thrilled by discovering the case and couldn’t wait to tell someone about it, and apparently that someone was Indigo. He made a questioning expression.

“The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens,” Sherlock began. “He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention—particularly a man, which is statistically more likely—so obviously he’d feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. Wouldn’t have taken him more than five minutes to realize his mistake,” he estimated. “I checked every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens, and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip.”

He was clearly waiting for a reaction from Indigo. “You got all that because you realized the case would be pink?” he commented, impressed.

“Well, it _had_ to be pink, obviously,” Sherlock told him, trying and failing to sound at all modest about it. “Practically everyone’s an idiot, that’s why no one else thought of it.”

Indigo assumed he was part of ‘practically everyone’ but didn’t let the insult wound him. “Now, look. Do you see what’s missing?” Sherlock went on eagerly, pointing at the case. Indigo did not look, and shook his head. “Her phone. Where’s her mobile phone? There was no phone on the body, there’s no phone in the case. We know she had one—that’s her number there. You just texted it.” He jumped up, then sat back down properly in the chair, and replaced the luggage label into its spot on the front of the case. Then he looked at Indigo impatiently. “Well, where’s her phone?” Apparently he was meant to guess.

“Lost?”

“Yes, or… ?” Sherlock pressed, dismissing that answer.

Indigo was not usually called upon to solve puzzles these days, frankly. “Stolen?” Sherlock’s look said this was not quite right either. “Maybe the murderer…” Sherlock started to get excited. “…threw it into a skip, too.” Sherlock deflated, disappointed, but it seemed like a reasonable idea to Indigo. “A mobile phone is a lot easier to get rid of than a pink suitcase.”

“Or, he might still have it!” Sherlock insisted. Clearly this was his preferred theory.

“Why would he keep it?” Indigo asked curiously.

Sherlock growled slightly in frustration with him, and Indigo reminded himself to be less inquisitive, more agreeable. Clearly he was just the audience here. That was alright, he’d been a lot worse. “Maybe she left it when she left her case,” Sherlock suggested finally, “or maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way, the balance of probability is the murderer has her phone.”

“Oh, I see,” Indigo nodded. “So I just sent a text to the murderer. Probably.”

“Yes!” Sherlock replied, happy again.

And then the phone started to ring.

Indigo was still holding it and he glanced at the screen. “Caller ID withheld,” he informed Sherlock, now feeling just slightly creepy about the whole thing. Normally his goal was to _avoid_ murderers, not get into conversations with them. “D’you want me to answer?”

“No!” Sherlock snapped, as if that idea was incredibly stupid, and Indigo nodded and set the phone down on the arm of the chair. “A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just _found_ that phone they’d ignore a text like that, but the murderer…” He paused dramatically, and the phone stopped ringing. “…would panic.” He seemed extremely satisfied.

“You don’t think that was just a credit card company calling you?” Indigo couldn’t help suggesting.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sprang from his chair, striding across the room to grab his suitjacket. Indigo assumed this meant he was going out and pushed himself stiffly to his feet. “Have you talked to the police?” he inquired.

“Four people are dead,” Sherlock reminded him. “There isn’t time to talk to the police.” Plenty of time to talk to your slave, though, obviously. He pulled his coat off a hook near the door and started putting it on.

“Did you want me to come with you?” Indigo asked, trying not to let on which way he preferred.

“Yes. I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud,” Sherlock explained briskly. “The skull just attracts attention, so…”

Indigo looked at him blankly, already limping towards the door. “Sorry, skull?” he asked in confusion.

“On the mantelpiece,” Sherlock non-clarified, thumping energetically down the stairs. Indigo saw nothing resembling a skull above the fireplace but shut the apartment door carefully and hobbled along in Sherlock’s wake. “Mrs. Hudson took it!” the other man shouted back up at Indigo, dancing impatiently around the foyer.

The older woman stuck her head out of a door on the ground floor. “Yes, dear?” she asked.

He waved her off. “I was telling Indigo you took my skull.” He swung around the bottom of the banister aimlessly; Indigo got the impression he was exercising great restraint in not telling him to hurry up.

Mrs. Hudson made a face at the mention of the object. “Gives me the creeps, that thing,” she proclaimed, then went back into her room.

When Indigo was near the bottom of the stairs Sherlock couldn’t take it anymore and bounded out the door, then had to deliberately slow his walk to let Indigo catch up. He didn’t say anything about it and Indigo didn’t either; on the one hand, Sherlock had bought the slave knowing of his mobility issues, and on the other he hadn’t beaten Indigo for them. So they seemed to be in equilibrium on that.

“We’re going to Northumberland Street?” Indigo surmised.

“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed. “He’s brilliant, this one. I _love_ the brilliant ones. They’re always so desperate to get caught.”

“Mmm,” Indigo replied noncommittally. He wasn’t sure he’d ever known anyone _that_ brilliant, then; in his experience people who did bad things were desperate _not_ to get caught, desperate enough to do even _more_ bad things to avoid it. Or else they didn’t think the things they did were really that bad, and thus weren’t worried about being caught at them. He put those thoughts aside. “Are we going to be eating soon?”

He could see this wasn’t what was on Sherlock’s mind. “You just ate on the transport,” he pointed out.

So that might be all he was allotted, Indigo realized. That would be… disappointing. He kept his mouth shut and thought about something else.

Sherlock tapped his arm to get his attention. “That was several hours ago, and only a single granola bar,” he added, which Indigo was well aware of. “Do you need to eat more?”

He seemed genuinely curious, odd though that was, so Indigo took a chance. “It would help me to function better,” he said carefully, “if I had more food.”

Sherlock nodded, seemingly understanding this. “We’re headed to a restaurant,” he revealed. “ _Anyway_ ,” he went on pointedly, since Indigo had interrupted his flow, “Appreciation! Applause! At long last the spotlight. The brilliant ones, desperate to get caught?” he repeated quickly when Indigo frowned at him. Oh, right. “That’s the frailty of genius—it needs an audience.”

“Oh, really?” Indigo responded, playing his part. It was slightly less sincere than he’d meant, more amused, but Sherlock seemed not to notice as he twirled around in the middle of the sidewalk, raising his arms to encompass the whole area.

“This is his hunting ground, right here in the heart of the city,” he continued, serious, dramatic, excited. It wasn’t something Indigo was used to, thinking about how to catch a criminal. “Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. Because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go.”

Suddenly Sherlock held up his hands on either side of his face, focusing hard like he was trying to bend a spoon with his mind. “Think! Who do we trust, even though we don’t know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?”

“Slaves.”

Sherlock froze in his tracks and slowly turned to stare at Indigo, who reminded himself sharply that he was the audience, not a participant. “Expand on that remark,” Sherlock instructed, and then Indigo was stuck.

“Nobody looks at slaves. They see the collar, and ignore them,” Indigo said. He could not bring himself to say ‘us.’ “I’ve fetched people I didn’t know for my masters plenty of times,” he went on with a shrug. “I tell them who sent me and they just come, invite me into their house, hand me their things. No one ever double-checks.”

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment, which would have been unnerving if not for the tiny smile tugging at his lips. “I will definitely be double-checking from now on,” he said slowly.

“Sorry,” Indigo added after a moment. “Who were _you_ going to suggest?”

“No idea,” Sherlock admitted blithely. “Hungry?” He turned suddenly into a doorway that led to a small, dimly-lit restaurant—Italian, Indigo surmised, from the smells and décor. A real hole-in-the-wall local place. His stomach clenched with hunger.

The waiter near the door apparently recognized Sherlock and gestured towards a table at the front window, which had a little ‘reserved’ sign on it. “Thank you, Billy,” Sherlock told him, shucking off his coat and sitting so he could see out the window. “Twenty-two Northumberland Street,” he added to Indigo, nodding to the building across the street. “Keep your eyes on it. Why are you still standing?” he asked with some annoyance.

“Where do you want me to sit?” Indigo checked. He saw Sherlock’s eyes flare, like this question was phenomenally stupid. “Do you want me to kneel?” He hadn’t noticed any other slaves in the restaurant, period, so he wasn’t sure what the atmosphere was like. Or if Sherlock was still keeping up the not-a-slave pretense, collar or no.

“Doesn’t it hurt to kneel, with your leg?” Sherlock checked.

“Yes.”

“But people have you do it anyway?”

“Yes.”

Indigo could not tell what Sherlock thought about this. “Sit there,” he finally said, pointing to the seat across the table. Indigo sat.

A burly man hustled over to them, clearly pleased to see Sherlock. Indigo put another notch in the column of people who thought Sherlock was good and/or useful, along with Detective Inspector Lestrade. Against him were Sergeant Donovan and the unnamed archenemy. Mrs. Hudson he wasn’t sure about yet—he didn’t know how well she knew Sherlock.

“Sherlock!” the man exclaimed, shaking his hand heartily. “Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free.” He laid down a couple of menus. “On the house, for you _and_ for your date.”

Indigo’s eyes widened at the assumption but he said nothing to refute it, and neither did Sherlock. “Order something,” Sherlock told him.

“Spaghetti with red sauce, please,” Indigo said promptly, without having a chance to peruse the menu. An Italian place ought to be able to produce that quickly.

“This man got me off a murder charge!” the man went on proudly to Indigo.

“Really? That’s lovely,” Indigo replied politely, wishing someone would bring some bread or something.

“This is Angelo,” Sherlock introduced belatedly.

The man offered his hand to Indigo, who shook it with only a slight hesitation. His grip was pathetic with trepidation. Slaves and free people didn’t shake hands. Angelo did not seem to notice his reticence.

“Three years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking,” Sherlock explained matter-of-factly.

“He cleared my name!” Angelo agreed, unperturbed at being outed as a burglar.

“I cleared it a _bit_ ,” Sherlock qualified. “Anything happening opposite?”

“Nothing,” Angelo shrugged. Indigo wondered if he was somehow in on this stakeout, too. “But for this man, I’d have gone to prison,” he confided to Indigo gratefully.

“You _did_ go to prison,” Sherlock reminded him, ever accurate.

Angelo waved this off. “I’ll get a candle for the table,” he told Indigo. “It’s more romantic.”

“How sweet. Perhaps some bread?” Indigo said after him.

Sherlock tossed his own menu aside. “Get what you want,” he reiterated to Indigo. “We might have a long wait.”

Angelo returned with a lit tealight in a bowl, which he set on the table with a conspiratorial thumbs up to Indigo. Then he added a basket of bread.

“Thanks so much,” Indigo told him, and tried not to shove the food into his mouth like a ravenous beast. “Do you bring a lot of dates here?” he asked when he had calmed his hunger somewhat. Maybe no one would notice he’d eaten the entire basket of bread himself.

Sherlock was staring out the window. “Hmm? Dates? No.”

Indigo was not sure how much to read into that vaguely negative statement. “Do you have a girlfriend or boyfriend?”

At this Sherlock turned and looked at him sharply. “Why do you ask?”

“Or someone else who might come over often,” Indigo clarified delicately, “so I’ll know to let them in.”

This was sufficiently harmless for Sherlock’s taste and he went back to staring out the window. “Oh. No, no one. Married to my work.”

Indigo nodded; sounded like a small, quiet household, then. He could use that. Though, they were at the moment trying to catch a serial killer, so perhaps he shouldn’t get too comfortable yet. “What are Mrs. Hudson’s duties?” He didn’t want to clash with her.

“Hardly anything,” Sherlock dismissed. “Occasionally brings me food or cleans up when she can’t stop herself.” He made it sound like some sort of affliction he just had to bear, and Indigo smiled a bit to himself.

“You said—“ Angelo appeared to serve his spaghetti himself, and did not seem to find it odd that Sherlock wasn’t eating. “Thank you, looks wonderful,” Indigo assured him. He gulped down a few bites before realizing that it was, in fact, actually rather good. “You said I’d have my own bedroom,” Indigo reminded Sherlock leadingly.

The other man rolled his eyes and Indigo drew back a bit, telling himself to quiet down. “Yes, it’s upstairs, up the back stairs in the kitchen,” Sherlock said shortly.

“Ah. Ta.” Indigo focused on eating, and thinking about other things. This was obviously not a good time to talk to his master about domestic concerns; he should have realized that.

A long stretch of silence ensued, with only the occasional drumbeat of Sherlock tapping his fingers on the table to interrupt it. Silence did not bother Indigo. Then suddenly Sherlock tensed, sitting up straighter, and Indigo became alert again.

“Look across the street,” Sherlock instructed. “Taxi.” Indigo twisted in his seat to see out the window. “Stopped. Nobody getting in, and nobody getting out.” Indigo could barely make out the passenger in the back seat, who seemed to be male. He wondered when it would be acceptable to turn back around and continue eating. “Why a taxi?” Sherlock murmured to himself. “Oh, that’s clever. _Is_ it clever? _Why_ is it clever?”

“Is that him?” Indigo asked curiously.

“Don’t stare,” Sherlock ordered, so he turned back around and picked up his fork again. “Come on,” Sherlock added suddenly, grabbing his coat and scarf and heading for the door. Indigo restrained himself from sighing and hurried after his master, who seemed to be engaged in a long-distance staring contest with the taxi’s passenger. Who might be a serial killer, so Indigo wasn’t really sure about the wisdom of that idea.

The taxi began to pull away and Sherlock surged after it, not bothering to check the street first, and Indigo stared, open-mouthed, as his new master was nearly run down by an oncoming car. Fortunately the driver slammed on his brakes in time and Sherlock vaulted over the hood without even blinking—like it was just the coffee table in the flat—and kept on running after the taxi, even as the driver he’d just terrified angrily laid on the horn.

Genius he may be, but clearly the man had no common sense. Or even survival instinct. Indigo raced after him.

Further up the block Sherlock stopped, realizing he wasn’t going to catch up with a moving vehicle. He brought his hands up to either side of his head again for a moment. “Right turn, one way, roadworks, traffic lights, bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights,” he rattled off, and Indigo was astounded once more, to think the man actually had a functional map of London in his head. Indigo knew the city, could get around certainly, but not to that level of detail.

Then Sherlock spotted someone unlocking a door on a nearby building and darted towards him, shoving him aside and racing into the building. The man shouted and Indigo followed after his master dutifully, pounding up the stairs to a metal fire escape staircase, and up _those_ to the roof. Sherlock, with his long legs, bounded up two or three steps at a time. “Come on, Indigo!”

Sherlock found another staircase and took it _down_ one floor, then leaped across the gap to the next building. Indigo had no clue where they were going anymore and was thinking only about how if he slipped and fell, he probably couldn’t count on dying—it would just be extremely painful. Ahead of him Sherlock had crossed another gap but Indigo skidded to a stop at the edge of the roof—there was really _no way_ he could jump that distance.

“Come _on_ , Indigo!” Sherlock summoned. “We’re losing him!”

Adrenaline roared through Indigo’s body—a good kind, maybe, an exciting kind, not the kind he felt when he was cowering in fear somewhere. He was _doing_ something, he was chasing someone _bad_. And it felt good. He backed up, ran, and made the leap, landing safely on the other side.

More stairs, more jumping, more running. They burst out of an alley, only to see the tail end of the taxi moving away from them. “Ah, no! This way!” Sherlock insisted, leading Indigo down more alleys and side streets. As they emerged onto the main street Indigo saw they were now _ahead_ of the taxi, and Sherlock threw himself at it with characteristic abandon.

“Police! Open her up!” he demanded, flashing an ID as the vehicle screeched to a stop. Panting, he yanked open the back door—and almost immediately pulled away in irritation. “No,” he growled. “Teeth, tan—what, Californian?” he snapped at the nervous-looking man. “L.A., Santa Monica—just arrived.” Indigo glanced down at the suitcase at the man’s feet, which carried a tag sending it from LAX to Heathrow. “It’s probably your first trip to London, right, going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you?” he predicted, only half-interested now.

“Sorry—are you guys the police?” the passenger asked, with a distinct American accent.

“Yeah,” Sherlock claimed, waving the police ID badge again. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” the man assured him.

Sherlock paused awkwardly, then gave a fake smile. “Welcome to London.” Immediately he turned and walked away.

Indigo gave the passenger a tight smile and professional-looking nod, and shut his door for him. The thought raced through his mind that they didn’t have slaves in America. Then he hurried off to join his master a few yards away.

“Basically just a cab that happened to slow down,” Indigo checked.

“Basically,” Sherlock agreed.

“Not the murderer?”

“ _Not_ the murderer, no,” Sherlock replied in exasperation, and Indigo nodded silently. Sherlock saw him glancing at the police ID badge and handed it to him nonchalantly. It had Lestrade’s name on it, and Indigo’s eyebrows shot up. “I pickpocket him when he’s annoying,” Sherlock claimed. “You can keep that one, I’ve got plenty at the flat.”

For some reason the whole situation struck Indigo as unexpectedly hilarious, and a giggle escaped him. “Welcome to London,” he repeated when Sherlock looked at him questioningly, and the other man chuckled as well.

Then he glanced down the road, seeing a _real_ policeman talking to the taxi passenger, who was pointing towards them. “Got your breath back? Let’s go,” and they started running again.

They were both panting when they arrived back at Baker Street, leaning heavily against the wall in the entry foyer. Indigo felt slightly giddy at the ridiculous thing they’d just done—an adventure, slightly dangerous, slightly naughty, but no one got hurt—like the things he and some of his mates had pulled in the Army or med school, and he dared to snicker again. Sherlock joined in until they were both gasping and laughing at the same time. It had been a long time since Indigo had had a good laugh. Especially with a master.

“Are we going back to the restaurant?” he finally asked.

Sherlock waved the idea off. “They can keep an eye out. It was a long shot anyway.” Indigo nodded like he had some understanding of _why_ they’d just gone through all that; it wasn’t his business to understand _why_ , it was enough that he’d enjoyed it. “And I wanted to prove a point,” Sherlock added mysteriously. Indigo gave him a questioning look; as if on cue, there was a knock at the door, and Sherlock indicated he should open it.

Angelo was standing there. And he was holding Indigo’s cane.

“Sherlock texted me. He said you forgot this,” the burly man explained, handing the cane to Indigo.

“Um, thank you,” Indigo responded dully. Sherlock was grinning when he turned to stare at him, his brain not fully grasping what had just happened.

What _had_ just happened? He’d run flat out down streets, climbed up and down stairs, leaped across roofs, and his leg _did not hurt at all_. Even when he thought about it, remembered that it was _supposed_ to hurt, that it had hurt for _eight bloody years_ , the pain didn’t come back. Even when he took several steps towards Sherlock the pain didn’t come back. The feeling was surreal, like he’d suddenly lost twenty-five pounds, or ten years.

He didn’t know what to say, or to think—except that Sherlock had done this for him, something no one else had managed to do. Indigo opened his mouth, not sure what was going to come out, but he had to acknowledge it somehow.

Then Mrs. Hudson burst from the door to her flat, looking upset. “Sherlock, what have you done?” she asked tearfully.

Sherlock stared at her. “Mrs. Hudson?”

“Upstairs!”

With a frown Sherlock dashed up the stairs, Indigo following, still reveling in the fact that he could do so painlessly. The door to the flat was open and the place was crawling with police officers, many of whom Indigo recognized from the murder scene earlier. Discreetly he slipped the police ID badge into his pocket.

Detective Inspector Lestrade was sitting in one of the armchairs, his expression a curious mixture of smugness and disappointment. “What are you doing?” Sherlock demanded of him angrily.

“Well, I knew you’d find the case,” Lestrade shrugged, indicating the pink suitcase still sitting on the dining room chair. “I’m not stupid.”

“You can’t just break into my flat!”

“And _you_ can’t withhold evidence,” Lestrade shot back reasonably. It occurred to Indigo that Sherlock had taken him for food and gotten him to run around the neighborhood, when he _could_ have been talking to the police. Though, he didn’t get the impression keeping the police in the loop on a case was a very high priority with Sherlock, so he probably shouldn’t feel too flattered. “And I didn’t _break_ into your flat,” Lestrade claimed, with a smirk.

Sherlock did not see the humor. “Well, what do you call this then?” he snapped.

Lestrade glanced around for a moment, wanting Sherlock to think he was enjoying this. “It’s a drugs bust,” he explained innocently.

Indigo assumed Sherlock would have a scathing reply to this comment, but he said nothing; his eyes skittered uncomfortably to the slave instead. Interesting—Indigo would not have guessed him a junkie, he’d been around junkies before—but then again, some people were good at functioning anyway. Or maybe _former_ junkie was a more accurate description—Indigo wouldn’t have called him _nervous_ , more… embarrassed. Ashamed.

Well, Indigo wasn’t going to judge him by his past. Deliberately he put the cane down, leaning it against the wall. He didn’t need it.

Sherlock blinked at him, then turned back to Lestrade. “I’m not your sniffer dog,” he protested sharply, indicating the suitcase he’d found.

It was a poor choice of words. “No, _Anderson’s_ my sniffer dog,” Lestrade shot back, and Sherlock frowned.

“What, An…” He trailed off as the doors to the kitchen opened—that room was also being ransacked by the police—and Anderson waved hello, his expression deeply sarcastic. “Anderson, what are _you_ doing here on a drugs bust?” Sherlock demanded, but Indigo understood at once: these were not people just doing their jobs, these were people taking delight in making Sherlock uncomfortable, in humiliating him. Maybe not Lestrade, he saw this more as an unpleasant tool he’d been forced to use, but the others—Indigo looked around at their faces and felt slightly ill. He stepped a little closer to Sherlock.

“Oh, I volunteered,” Anderson assured them, poisonously.

“They _all_ did,” Lestrade explained. “They’re not strictly speaking _on_ the drugs squad, but they’re very keen.”

Donovan stepped into the living room from the kitchen, holding up something in a jar. “Are these _human_ eyes?” she asked with disgust. Indigo’s eyebrows rose.

“Put those back!” Sherlock ordered.

“They were in the microwave!”

“It’s an experiment!”

“Keep looking, guys,” Lestrade encouraged, standing. “Or you could help us properly and I’ll stand them down.”

“This is childish,” Sherlock judged angrily. Indigo had the feeling he would give in, though, and absently started replacing some books on the shelves. Might as well get the clean-up going.

“Well, I’m _dealing_ with a child,” Lestrade replied patronizingly. It did not seem unjustified. “Sherlock, this is _our_ case. I’m letting you in, but you do _not_ go off on your own. Clear?” Indigo smirked slightly, his back to the room; Lestrade couldn’t possibly think Sherlock would actually abide by that.

“Oh, what, so you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?” Sherlock retorted.

“It stops being pretend if they find anything,” Lestrade warned him.

“I am clean!” Sherlock declared loudly.

“Is your flat?” Lestrade checked. “All of it?”

“I don’t even smoke,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Neither do I.” When Indigo glanced back they were comparing nicotine patches, like they were matching military tattoos. “So let’s work together,” Lestrade went on. “We found Rachel.”

Unfortunately, Rachel was dead—Jennifer Wilson’s stillborn daughter from fourteen years ago. It was not unreasonable she might have _thought_ of her in her last moments, but to actually scratch her name on the floor? Sherlock was convinced there was something more to it than mere sentiment. Besides—“It was _ages_ ago, why would she still be upset?”

The police in the room actually fell silent and turned to stare at Sherlock. “Not good?” he asked Indigo, who was straightening papers on the desk.

“Bit not good, yeah,” he agreed dryly.

Sherlock shook his head, trying to stay focused. “Stop that,” he told Indigo, and he did. Lestrade’s eyes darted between them. “If you were dying, if you’d been murdered—in your very last few seconds, what would you say?”

Indigo did not actually give it much thought, because he had no intention of unpacking any relevant memories right now, no matter how intently Sherlock was staring at him. “Name of the person who killed me?” he suggested.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Obviously not correct in this case,” he noted. “And, she might not have _known_ his name—but something to _point_ to him… She was clever, really clever, running all those lovers…”

“You want something to eat?” Indigo offered. He was not one of those slaves who survived by toadying to their masters; but he could see _this_ particular one could use some help in practical matters. And, there was his leg. “I could make you something.”

“No!” Sherlock snapped. “She’s trying to tell us something…”

“ _Who_ are you again?” Lestrade asked suspiciously, turning his gaze on Indigo.

“His doctor,” the slave replied, surprised by the lack of hesitation in his tone.

Lestrade snorted. “Psychiatrist, I hope.”

Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway. “Your taxi’s here, Sherlock,” she announced.

“I didn’t order a taxi,” he told her brusquely. “Go away.”

“How about some tea?” Indigo suggested, and Sherlock’s eyes suddenly blazed at him. Okay, misjudged _that_ one.

“Out, get out,” Sherlock snarled, and Indigo headed swiftly for the door as Sherlock continued yelling to the room in general. “Shut up, everybody, shut up! Don’t move, don’t speak, don’t breathe!”

“Come on, dear, let’s let him be,” Mrs. Hudson suggested, taking Indigo’s arm. The two of them went downstairs, passing the taxi driver who was loitering in the hall.

“’E comin’ or not?” the man squawked at them.

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Hudson responded primly. “He says he didn’t order a taxi. You should just go.” She followed Indigo into her flat and then shut her door firmly, locking it. Then she turned around and jumped slightly when she saw Indigo kneeling on the floor. She knew he was a slave, after all; Sherlock had told her to get some clothes for him. “No need to be so formal, dear,” she assured him. “Come on, we’ll just let Sherlock solve his little murder, and we’ll have a nice cuppa.”

“D’you want me to make it?” Indigo offered, standing. He enjoyed the sensations of both kneeling and standing now, when they weren’t accompanied by agony.

“That’s alright, dear, I’ve got it.” Mrs. Hudson had him sit at the kitchen table while she bustled around. “Sherlock can be a bit of a pill, there’s no denying it,” she admitted, “but deep down he’s a sweetheart.”

“How deep?” Indigo ventured. He was getting whiplash from the man’s many mood swings, trying to figure out what he wanted—what he wanted but didn’t _know_ he wanted. Standard procedure for a slave in a new household, but Sherlock was anything but standard. “Have you known him long?” he went on, as she served him tea and biscuits.

“Oh, several years,” Mrs. Hudson replied, which surprised him somewhat. “My late husband—George—a few years ago he got himself into some trouble in Florida, over the murder of a coed…”

“Sorry, your husband was accused of murder?” Indigo repeated with mild disbelief. He would’ve assumed Mrs. Hudson had met Sherlock in a more benign way—though Sherlock was not exactly the type to frequent craft festivals or whatever Mrs. Hudson did for fun.

“He was going to be executed!” Mrs. Hudson nodded, further boggling Indigo’s mind. “Then somehow his lawyer came up with this crucial piece of evidence… and Sherlock was able to show it was a fake, so the old bugger got what he deserved,” she finished sagely.

“Oh. That’s lovely,” Indigo finally replied, when he couldn’t think of anything else to say. All’s well that ends well, he supposed. Well, except for George. And the coed.

“Sherlock just wants to see justice done,” she added happily.

“He wants to show off,” Indigo dared to counter.

She smiled. “That, too. You know, he’s so clever in some ways, and frightfully silly in others,” she warned Indigo.

“I’ve noticed.”

“Just needs a bit of looking after,” Mrs. Hudson decided fondly, echoing Indigo’s own thoughts. He also realized that was the second time tonight someone else had said that to him about Sherlock, the first being the mysterious man in the warehouse. The archenemy. “Maybe he’ll let you do more than me, he throws such awful fits when I move this things,” she went on, rolling her eyes. “But really, some of his ‘experiments’…” She trailed off, shaking her head.

“They found eyeballs in the microwave,” Indigo relayed, and she screwed up her face in disgust.

“Inquisitive,” was what she finally decided, with great generosity.

Indigo cocked his head to one side, hearing footsteps on the stairs beyond the door. They were slow, deliberate, heading upward. A tickling sensation began at the back of his neck. “That cabbie seemed a bit out of sorts,” he mentioned.

Mrs. Hudson hadn’t liked him either. “Gave me the willies, he did,” she agreed. “It’s funny seeing people not where they belong, isn’t it?” Indigo blinked at her. “A cabbie driving a cab is alright, but when they get out and start loitering around a house, it’s just odd.”

The footsteps again, but heading down; the front door opened and closed. “Sorry, Mrs. Hudson, what were you—“ More footsteps, faster. Indigo knew they were Sherlock’s and he jumped up suddenly, running to the peephole at Mrs. Hudson’s front door. He could see Sherlock in the foyer, with his coat on, alone—looking apprehensive, but also anticipatory.

The cabbie was taking Sherlock to the killer, Indigo realized in a flash. Or, the cabbie _was_ the killer. Either way, Sherlock was going alone, because he thought he was too clever to be a victim.

Plans tumbled through Indigo’s brain, rejected one after another. There were limits to what he could do as a slave—though at the moment, very few people knew he _was_ a slave. And one of his problems had always been not acting like one.

“Mrs. Hudson, do you have a gun?” he asked her urgently.

She was startled by the question but pointed automatically towards a drawer in the kitchen. “My late husband’s Army pistol…” Indigo had already found it, made sure it was in good order.

“Bullets?” He located them in the next drawer before she could answer. “Could use some cash, too,” he decided, expertly loading the gun. The memory of how to do so hadn’t faded, no matter how old it was. He just hoped his aim was still good.

“But what are you going to do?” she asked with some distress, handing him a wad of cash.

He tucked it away with the gun. “Sherlock’s getting himself in trouble again,” he told her quickly. “Tell the police he’s going off in a cab to meet the killer.” Sherlock was no longer in the foyer, and when Indigo cracked the building door, there was no sign of him outside either. He raced onto the sidewalk, seeing the tail of a cab—the numbers on it were the same as the cab they’d been chasing earlier. He didn’t have time to relay them to Mrs. Hudson, though, as he flagged another taxi about to pass by.

“Follow that cab,” he ordered, getting in.

“Really?” the driver asked incredulously.

“ _Yes_ ,” Indigo snapped, and he did.

Slaves were not supposed to ride in cabs alone, unless they had a note from their masters. Well, the law said they were allowed like anyone else; but in reality, drivers wouldn’t stop for a collar unless a free person was there to put them in, preferably with the permission slip and cash in advance. Wouldn’t want to risk being accused of helping a slave escape, after all. It made transportation rather tedious if you had a lot of errands to run—most slaves in London took the Tube.

They lost the cab around a corner. “What’s around here?” Indigo asked, peering out the windows. “Any abandoned buildings, empty houses? Someplace quiet at night.”

The driver shrugged. “There’s the college up there—“

“Go!” Indigo ordered, following his instinct. He was right, sickeningly so, he saw as they pulled up: the cab they’d been following sat empty in the parking lot. “Go back to 221B Baker Street,” Indigo instructed the driver, giving him all the cash Mrs. Hudson had handed him, “and tell the police there to come to this address. They’re looking for that cab.” He had no idea if the man would do this or not, and no time to worry about it; instead he darted from the car, trying to decide which of the two, identical, intermittently-lit buildings he should enter. He didn’t have Sherlock’s deduction skills so he just chose one, fifty-fifty chance, and started checking all the unlocked doors.

It was frustratingly slow. They could have gone upstairs at any point, to the basement, to a closet or bathroom, to the roof. He tried being quiet and listening for Sherlock’s voice, looking for any clues he might have left, even smelling his aftershave. Indigo had a terrible feeling that time was growing short.

Then he saw them. Sherlock and another man, standing in a classroom on either side of a table. There was a gun between them, on the other man’s side, and Sherlock looked like he was holding something small up to the light, possible preparing to swallow it—the poison that had killed the others. Indigo shouted Sherlock’s name—but since this was all happening in another room in the building he _hadn’t_ chosen, meaning they were separated by two windows and a courtyard, Sherlock didn’t hear him.

There was only one thing Indigo could think to do, and that was to take aim and fire the gun he’d brought. The bullet cut through the windows and caught the other man in the chest; he dropped like a rock, and Sherlock jumped backwards in surprise.

Indigo did not stay for Sherlock to see him, trusting he could take care of himself for a few minutes; Indigo could not afford to be caught there by the police he hoped were coming. What he’d just done was questionable for a free person, let alone a slave. But oddly he didn’t feel any remorse, and wondered briefly if that should bother him. But he had other things to think of, like getting the powder burns off his hands.

**

The flashing lights from the police cars and ambulances lit up the night, reflecting off the walls and windows surrounding them. Fortunately at this hour there were few people to disturb here—hence the initial draw of the location. Sherlock sat on the back steps of an ambulance, shoving a dingy orange blanket off his shoulders only to have the paramedic insistently replace it. He appealed to Lestrade as the Detective Inspector approached.

“Why have I got this blanket? They keep putting this blanket on me,” he complained, perplexed.

“Yeah, it’s for shock,” Lestrade replied, as though it was something perfectly normal.

“I’m not _in_ shock,” Sherlock protested. He could control himself better than _that_.

“Yeah, but some of the guys wanna take photographs,” Lestrade claimed with a grin, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“So, the shooter,” he went on pointedly, as Lestrade seemed intent on ignoring the important matters in favor of jokes. “No sign?”

Lestrade shrugged negatively. “Cleared off before we got ‘ere. But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose,” he theorized dubiously. “One of them could have been following him but… got nothing to go on.” He did not sound especially motivated to hunt down the person who had dispatched a serial killer, but it _was_ his job.

“Oh I wouldn’t say that,” Sherlock contradicted, and Lestrade rolled _his_ eyes.

“Okay, gimme,” the man allowed.

Sherlock pushed away from the ambulance, the bits and pieces of logic and evidence tumbling through his brain, randomly but neatly linking into a perfect chain. “The bullet’s from a hand gun,” he pointed out. “Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon—that’s a crack shot you’re looking for, but not just a marksman, a—“

“Are you alright?” Indigo interrupted, jogging up to him. Immediately he adjusted the fallen blanket back over Sherlock’s shoulder and tried to take his pulse.

“I’m not in shock,” Sherlock snapped at him, but the man merely counted off the heartbeats at Sherlock’s wrist while using his mobile as a clock—actually it was Sherlock’s phone. “Don’t interrupt me,” he added peevishly. “The shooter—“

“Oh, and that reminds me,” Lestrade broke in, heedless of Sherlock’s order. His tone was more irritated now and he was looking directly at Indigo. “I looked up your ‘colleague.’ Since it was so unusual for you to have one.” Sherlock’s gaze narrowed but Lestrade pressed on. “Slaves are supposed to be collared.”

“Well I just got him today,” Sherlock replied indignantly. “Or yesterday. Maybe it was the day before.” He sometimes lost track of time on cases. Lestrade _ought_ to be worried about the shooter, not Sherlock’s new slave. Obviously the shooter was a fighter with nerves of steel, his hands couldn’t have shaken at all—

“And they aren’t supposed to misrepresent themselves,” Lestrade added severely.

\--didn’t fire until Sherlock was in immediate danger, so strong moral principle, possibly military—

The chain suddenly came together in his mind. “I told him to do that,” Sherlock insisted. He carefully did not look at Indigo, who stood quietly at his side, still and apparently untroubled. But he probably wasn’t really there.

“Yeah, I know you did,” Lestrade agreed, “but it’s illegal.” Not that he expected Sherlock to care about minor things like that. “Now what were you saying about the shooter? Crack shot, obviously—“

“Ignore me,” Sherlock advised quickly, and he couldn’t blame Lestrade for goggling; he wasn’t sure he’d ever said those words in his life, unless they began with ‘don’t.’

“Sorry?”

“It’s just the, er, shock talking,” Sherlock claimed.

“You should eat something,” Indigo suggested quietly.

“Yes, _alright_ ,” Sherlock hissed at him, as though the man had been nagging him to death. He grabbed the slave’s hand and started to walk away. “Come on.”

“Where’re you going?!” Lestrade protested indignantly. “I’ve still got questions for you!”

“Oh what _now_?” Sherlock asked in irritation. “I’m in shock! Look, I’ve got a blanket.” He flapped it at Lestrade for emphasis. “ _And_ , I just caught you a serial killer… more or less.” Indigo’s hand did not tighten or squirm in his.

“Alright, fine,” Lestrade finally conceded. “We’ll bring you in tomorrow. Off you go.” Sherlock turned his back and stalked away, towing Indigo behind him, and missed Lestrade’s small smirk.

Once they’d crossed the police tape Sherlock stopped to yank off the blanket and stuff it through the open window of a patrol car. Glancing around to make sure they were alone he leaned Indigo against the side of the car, blocking him with his arm. “Good shot,” Sherlock said quietly.

Indigo cocked his head to the side slightly. “Yes, it must have been,” he agreed, and for a millisecond his poker face was so perfect Sherlock experienced doubt. Then something flashed through his deep blue eyes.

“Well, _you’d_ know.” It wasn’t that Indigo was trying to hide it, exactly; he was just fading out, his standard defense mechanism. Sherlock snapped his fingers in front of his face to regain his attention. “Hey! We need to get the powder burns out of your fingers.” Slaves were not allowed to even handle loaded guns, let alone kill anyone with them, even in defense. Which meant it was likely Indigo hadn’t picked up a gun since his military days—years ago. “Which one of us were you trying to hit?” Sherlock finally asked.

His reward was a full, clear gaze and the slightest hint of a smirk. “I washed my hands already.”

“Are you alright?” Sherlock probed. He was not equipped to judge this for himself, and he wasn’t sure if Indigo was, either, frankly. “You _have_ just killed a man.”

“He wasn’t a very _nice_ man,” Indigo shrugged. This was not exactly reassuring to Sherlock, who didn’t make much attempt at being a nice man himself. “And you were going to take that pill.”

“No I wasn’t,” Sherlock claimed, without examining whether this statement was true.

“And then I’d be back on the block,” Indigo went on, “and who else would be fool enough to buy me?”

Sherlock smiled at him finally, relaxing. He took his hand again and headed towards the main road. “Only if I’d chosen wrong,” he pointed out of the pill.

“You risk your life to prove you’re clever,” Indigo assessed, his tone mildly disapproving.

“Well _you_ risked your life for your own bedroom,” Sherlock tossed back, finding this painfully prosaic. Even as he said it he knew it wasn’t really true; but he wasn’t sure yet what to put in its place. “You wanted dinner?”

“Yes.”

“End of Baker Street, there’s a good Chinese stays open ‘til two,” Sherlock told him. “You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle. After that we’re going to celebrate solving the case, so I hope you’ve had enough sleep.” At this, his hand _did_ involuntarily squeeze Sherlock’s, which just made Sherlock want to skip the Chinese altogether.

A few yards ahead of them a car had pulled up and now its passenger exited the back. Indigo recognized him immediately and pulled Sherlock to a stop, tension tightening every muscle. “That’s him. The man I told you about earlier.” Sherlock’s archenemy, with Anthea/not-Anthea in tow.

Sherlock continued to approach, though his expression was stormy. “I know _exactly_ who that is.”

“So, another case cracked,” the man opened, with forced pleasantness. “How very public-spirited… though that’s never really your motivation, is it?”

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock demanded peevishly.

“As ever, I’m concerned about you,” the man claimed innocently.

“Yes, I’ve been hearing about your ‘concern,’” Sherlock sneered. Indigo did not take his eyes off the man, taking his cues from his master’s body language.

“Always so aggressive,” the man tutted patronizingly. “And contrary. Do you really think a _slave_ is going to look after you?”

At that, Indigo dropped Sherlock’s hand and stepped between him and the mysterious man, eyes flicking over him in cool assessment. “Oh, he does alright,” Sherlock responded dryly. “I wouldn’t make him angry if I were you.”

It wasn’t so much the slave himself who made the man a touch nervous, as the slight glee in Sherlock’s tone. “This petty feud between us is simply childish,” he insisted more seriously. “And you know how it always upset Mummy.”

“ _I_ upset her? Me?” Sherlock repeated indignantly. “It wasn’t _me_ that upset her, Mycroft.”

Mycroft nodded at Indigo with some interest. “You know, I really think he’s planning to kill me,” he noted, his curiosity exceeding his concern. He didn’t see _that_ kind of reaction in favor of Sherlock very often.

“Well, you’ve upset him,” Sherlock claimed. Finally he tugged on Indigo’s arm, slightly alarmed by how tense he was. “Relax, this is my brother, Mycroft.”

This did not actually make him relax. “Not your archenemy?” Indigo checked, and Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“I occupy a minor position in the British government,” he insisted, as though Sherlock was just being overdramatic.

“He _is_ the British government,” Sherlock corrected. “I _said_ , it’s alright,” he hissed at Indigo, taking his hand, and finally the slave seemed to calm a bit. Mycroft clearly found this response intriguing, more intriguing than Sherlock wanted him to. “Goodnight,” he told his brother briskly, pulling Indigo away. “Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does for the traffic.”

Indigo turned to look back at Mycroft several times as they departed. “Stop it,” Sherlock told him with annoyance. “He may be a cold-hearted b-----d, but he’s not going to have me assassinated.”

“It’s hard to tell with you,” Indigo replied dryly.

“Dim sum?” Sherlock asked, changing the subject. “I can always predict the fortune cookies.”

“Alright.”

“Your enthusiasm is overwhelming,” Sherlock said sarcastically. Not that it was really required.

“I’m saving it for later.”

At this Sherlock turned and gave him a raised eyebrow. “Maybe we should go straight home,” he proposed.

Indigo shook his head. “You need to eat.”

“We’ll get it to go,” Sherlock decided.


End file.
